


Look When You Can't Touch

by TeamHPForever



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottoming from the Top, Coming Untouched, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamHPForever/pseuds/TeamHPForever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames lives in the building next to Arthur. Sometimes he likes to undress in front of the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look When You Can't Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to "I Get Off" by Halestorm and this sort of happened. Title was taken from the same song.

Arthur’s never really considered himself an adventurous person. He’s an upper-level manager for a Fortune 500 company who works hard and doesn’t bend the rules. His wildest hobby is spending winter weekends skiing in Minnesota. He’s always preferred long relationships, actually getting to know a person and letting them get to know him, over brief flings.

Sure, he hasn’t had sex in eight months, but he’s okay with that.

His Chicago apartment faces a park through one window and another complex in another. Normally around this time he’d be settling down in front of the former with a cup of Earl Gray.

Instead, he’s looking at the apartment just across the alley from his. There’s a man, his reddish-brown hair slicked to the side, looking down out the window. His fingers race through the buttons on his shirt until his black button-up slips away.

Arthur knows that he should leave, close the curtains. He knows that he’s being a fucking creeper but he can’t stop.

The man is certainly well-muscled, his abs not quite defined into a six-pack. Swirls of black ink cover one shoulder. His hands reach down and Arthur can only see the waistband of his jeans before he’s pushing them down. His boxers go next.

The alley between them is barely over five feet, giving Arthur the perfect view. He steps closer, like that might help him see better. It doesn’t. His eyes trace the points of the man’s hips, everything important hidden out of the sight.

The man looks up, catching Arthur’s eye for a second. Arthur waits for the look of rage, the quick cover-up, a middle finger. Instead, the man gives him a wink and then the curtains slide closed.

Arthur avoids looking out the window the next day, not sure if he’s afraid of seeing the man or of not seeing him. He’s just finished up washing dishes when he glances out in pure habit.

The man is there.

Arthur walks over just as he looks up. The man holds his gaze for a moment and then reaches up to unbutton his shirt. His fingers move slowly, revealing a small slice of skin each time. He pushes his arms back, lets the brown button-up slide to the floor.

Arthur waits with bated breath for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Instead he nods across the window and waves his hand. _You next._

This couldn’t really be happening. Arthur glances back over his shoulder at his empty apartment. The man is still there when he turns back around, waiting.

Arthur reaches over his shoulder and pulls his white T-shirt off one-handed. He’s never been much for working out besides running, but he’s rather proud of his body. The man doesn’t seem to be turned off. He leans closer to his own window and raises his eyebrows.

The man is just reaching for his jeans when he freezes, head jerked to the side. He mouths something across to Arthur and then sweeps the curtains closed.

Arthur sags against the wall, disappointed and disturbed in turns. He’d almost just stripped in front of a complete stranger. A stranger that he’d watched strip naked the day before.

Oh God. What had startled the man that he had to quit? Was he married? Seeing someone? Arthur shakes his head and closes his curtains. He needs to get out more, meet a nice boy and find a connection. His days as a voyeur are over. Starting now.

Arthur just leaves the curtains closed for a few days. It makes his apartment a little bit darker but who needs light anyway. He’s got the view overlooking the city. He doesn’t need the darkened side of another apartment building.

On Friday night, Arthur’s pouring himself a vodka cranberry when he glances over at the curtains. Surely if the man had been caught in the act by his partner, he’d be so embarrassed that he’d quit undressing in front of the window. It’s probably safe.

Arthur gulps down half his drink and walks over to open the curtains. It’s all clear. A young boy, probably not more than six, stands in front of a window down a floor and over about six units. He waves across the alley. Arthur waves back. There’s no one else.

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief and takes his drink over to the couch. He’ll start on his resolution to get out more next week. For now, there’s a whole lot of emails to catch up on.

Saturday morning dawns with dark skies and a drizzle that may never end. Arthur’s pushing bacon around a pan when he looks up and catches a glimpse of the man. He’s merely walking past, but it’s enough for him to catch a wide expanse of back and another tattoo. It doesn’t look like much more than a gray shadow covering his right shoulder from this distance. Arthur blinks and the man is already gone.

Breakfast is spent in the company of more emails. When he’s done, Arthur glances down at where he’s still wearing his pajamas and decides to tempt fate.

He feels like an idiot as he stands in front of the window, quickly checking to make sure no one’s looking back at him. The shirt goes first, pulled off in one smooth movement. From there, Arthur looks down at his sweatpants, wondering if the man can even see that far through the window. He leans against the windowsill, looking down at the alley below. It’s dark and empty. When he looks back up, the man is there.

Arthur startles, straightening up and snatching his hands away from the window. The man grins at him, laughing and shaking his finger. Arthur shrugs and waves a hand in his direction. The man looks down at himself—he’s already shirtless—and then must step onto something because suddenly he’s about a foot taller and— _God,_ Arthur can see everything.

The man’s wearing simple black boxers, slung low to emphasize the V of his hips. Arthur’s eyes are drawn immediately to the fact that he’s hard. His usual briefs, usually rather nice, seem too tight now. He drops his sweatpants to the floor and hesitates for a moment before allowing his briefs to join them. Arthur lets out a sigh of relief as his cock springs free.

If the man can see what he’s doing, he doesn’t let on. His eyes stay on Arthur’s as he pushes his boxers to the ground. His cock comes up and even from this distance Arthur can see he’s not small by any means. His hand longs to reach around it, to feel the soft skin for himself. He licks his lips, mouth watering.

The man blows him a kiss and then wraps a hand around himself. He uses his left, pressing his right against the glass and leaning his weight against it. His strokes are long and steady but he never breaks eye contact with Arthur.

Okay, forget about watching strange men undress, forget about fantasizing about them, _this_ is the most insane thing Arthur has ever done. He shakes his head and then decides he doesn’t give a damn.

Arthur reaches down, letting out a sharp sigh of relief as he strokes. He can’t imagine that he’s going to last long, not like this. Not watching the man across the alley working himself closer to coming. His hand is moving faster now, his eyes slipping closed. Arthur growls, catching the man’s eyes and pointing at himself. Mouths, _Keep looking at me._

The man nods in response and leans his lower arm against the window. His lips are parted and Arthur wishes that he could hear the gasps that he’s surely letting out now. Arthur clenches his fist around the base of his cock, staving off his orgasm. Heat races up his spine and his knees shake.

The man strokes twice more and can’t stop his come from painting the bottom of the glass in streaks. “Fucking _hell_ ,” Arthur groans and he can’t hold it off anymore. He comes, all over the wall and carpet.

When he comes down, Arthur looks across to see the man leaning his forehead against the cool of the glass. His sides heave and when he’s able to look up, he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Arthur feels stupid as he raises his hand in a wave. The man throws his head back in laughter and then waves back.

There’s nothing left for them to do now. Arthur turns away to grab a towel from the closet. He tries not to glance out the window while he deals with his mess, but he can’t resist. The man is still there, a roll of paper towel in one hand and a handful of them in the other. His mouth is turned down in a deep frown and Arthur can’t help but let out a chuckle.

After about twenty minutes of riding his post-orgasm haze, Arthur gets hit by the sheer gravity by what he just did. Anyone could have looked out their window and seen them. That _kid_ that waved at him the other day could have seen him. What the fuck was he thinking?

For the rest of the weekend, Arthur refuses to look out the window. He doesn’t close the curtains. Tells himself that he doesn’t need to, that what happened was a one-time thing and it’s time to move on from it. Saturday night, he spends at the bar with Cobb. When his best friend leaves early to go home to Phillipa and James, Arthur eyes a blond boy clearly celebrating his twenty-first birthday with a pub crawl.

The boy’s been checking him out for at least the last hour. It would be too easy. Arthur knocks back the last of his drink. He needs this, he tells himself. But he’s only two steps away from his seat when he realizes that he doesn’t _want_ this.

Arthur turns himself around, calls a cab, and goes home. He tries not to think too much on it when he wakes up in a wet spot from a dream about the man across the alley.

Arthur bursts into his apartment like a whirlwind after work on Monday. He’s two hours late getting home with nothing to show for it. His boss made him stay late for a teleconference and then kept him even later to chew him out for something that was really _Fischer’s_ responsibility.

“Bullshit,” Arthur growls. He takes it out on his teapot, putting it on the stove with more force than is strictly necessary. As he waits for it to boil, his eyes are drawn out the window. The man is nowhere to be seen but Arthur’s immediately half-hard anyway.

“God damn it,” Arthur hisses, palming his cock through his jeans in a counterproductive attempt to make it go away. “This is crazy. I just need to forget about him.”

His brain supplies him with an image of the man on his knees instead. Arthur closes his eyes and shoves his hand inside his jeans. His skin is too rough and he hisses at the rasp of it against his cock. There’s some lube hidden in a bedroom drawer.

Arthur fetches it and stops in the middle of his living room. No one should be able to see him here. He pushes his jeans and briefs down just enough to pull his cock out. Squirts lube onto his hand and sighs with relief on the first stroke.

Arthur’s eyes slip closed and he pictures the man again. He’d be on his knees, grin on his face as he stares up. He’d lean forward, take Arthur into his mouth and all the way down on the first try. Somehow he’d know how to swirl his tongue in just the right place to make Arthur’s knees shake.

Arthur clenches his jaw to keep from moaning out loud. He’s already so close he can barely believe it. A towel. He needs a towel. He doesn’t know how he makes it all the way to the kitchen, movement made almost painful. He grabs the hand towel from beside the sink and comes into it with a single stroke.

_“Fuck_ ,” Arthur shouts as his toes curl into the carpet.

The teapot chooses that moment to start whistling. He pauses long enough to toss the towel into the laundry and wash his hands. He’s not really sure he needs the tea anymore, not after that, but he pours himself a cup anyway.

As he sits down, it hits him that maybe it wasn’t just a one-time thing. Not for him, at least. After all, he just got off to a fantasy about a man whose name he doesn’t even _know._

Arthur takes a sip of tea and stares out at the lit up skyscrapers surrounding him. He doesn’t have to figure this out right now. It’s been a long day. He’ll worry about the man and whatever this _thing_ is that he has for him later.

_This isn’t later,_ he thinks the next day, leaning one hand against the window and clutching a towel in the other. His sides heave as he struggles to catch his breath. Across the alley, the man is half-sitting on the windowsill, one side pressed against the glass, absentmindedly stroking his cock as he comes down from his own orgasm.

The man winks and blows him a kiss before climbing down from the window. Arthur starts to turn away, figuring that their little game is over now and it’s time for him to clean up. A flash of movement catches his eye and he freezes where he is.

The man reaches down and when he straightens back up, he’s holding a white piece of paper pressed against the glass. _“Eames._ ” What was that supposed to mean? Was it a place? A foreign word?

A name. It was a name. Arthur holds up one finger and the man—Eames—nods back, laughing. He grabs a piece of paper out of his printer and a Sharpie from the kitchen. _“Arthur._ ” He races back, afraid that Eames may have left. But no, there he is. Two pieces of paper pressed against the window this time. _Just want to know…whose name to scream._

Arthur shivers, his cock stirring half-heartedly. He never blushes but here he is, skin burning with it. He presses his own piece of paper against the window and Eames’s lips move, forming the syllables of his name.

What _is_ he doing? He doesn’t know anything about this guy across the alley. He could be a drug addict or a mobster or a serial killer.

Eames gives him a smile and waves. As ridiculous as this whole situation is, Arthur’s fears melt away. He waves back and wanders off into his house to get cleaned up.

For a few days, Arthur doesn’t see Eames. He figures they must just be missing each other but he can’t help but be afraid that maybe Eames is tired of this game they’ve been playing. He’s sure he’s never seen anyone else in Eames’s apartment so at least that helps soothe his fears that he’s playing the role of homewrecker.

Friday rolls around and Arthur doesn’t have much hope. Surely Eames has better things to do on a Friday night than fucking himself in front of a random guy across the alley.

Arthur can’t help but wonder if he’s dreaming when he looks out the window and Eames is there. It’s almost eleven at night but _Eames is there._ He’s dressed to the nines in a suit—black pants and jacket, pure white shirt, simple thin black tie. Arthur whines as he thinks about rumpling that jacket or shoving his hands underneath that damn shirt. The tie…that can stay on.

Arthur feels strangely under-dressed as he glances down at his own jeans and faded sweatshirt. He catches Eames’s eye and draws a question mark against the glass.

Eames tugs his tie loose and shrugs. Whatever it is he’s dressed up for, he doesn’t look happy about it. Arthur tugs on an imaginary tie and nods in approval.

Eames grins and spins around slowly. Once he’s facing the window once more, he drops his shoulders and lets the jacket fall to the floor. Suspenders. He is wearing suspenders.

Arthur lets out a sharp gasp, longing to tug on them. He motions at the suit with his hand and mouths, _Keep. It. On._

Eames must not get the message because he winks across and immediately starts to unbutton his shirt. Arthur’s forehead hits the glass in front of him with a soft thump but he doesn’t look away. He pulls off his own shirt, just to have something to do, and leans against the windowsill to watch the show.

Eames dances to music that Arthur can’t hear as he pushes his suspenders down off his shoulders and drops the shirt to the floor. Then— _oh._ Maybe he did get the message. Eames reaches back behind him and brings the suspenders back up. He pushes his palms against the glass and leans close to the window, tie hanging down around his throat, and raises both eyebrows as if to say, _How’s this?_

Arthur’s mouth runs dry and his lips part into a groan. He must look appropriately debauched because Eames gives a satisfied grin. Arthur unzips his jeans and just drops both them and his briefs to the floor. He doesn’t need them, not now. When he looks back up, Eames has another message for him.

_Want to see you._

Oh God. Everything before this has been crazy but still relatively on the safe side. Letting Eames see him…Arthur has never been this hard in his life. He disappears, bolting about the house. There has to be _something_ that he can stand on. Anything. He finds a step stool underneath the sink that he doesn’t remember buying. That’ll do. Eames is just leaning against the window, holding his cock in an unmoving grip. His lips part when he looks up and sees Arthur standing in front of the window in full-glory.

Arthur feels ridiculous, standing on top of a step stool in front of his window stark naked, but Eames doesn’t let him feel that way for long. He unzips his pants and pushes them down just enough to free himself. It takes a moment for Arthur to realize that, to be able to do that so easily, he must be going commando.

Arthur catches a drop of pre-cum in his palm before it drips to the floor and palms his cock. He’s not interested in lasting long at the moment. Eames doesn’t seem to be trying to draw this out either. His strokes are rapid and jerky, his free hand braced against the windowsill, nails biting into the wood.

Arthur has just enough time to grab for his briefs as his orgasm hits. He bends over with the force of it, “ _Fuck”_ screaming out of his throat. He looks up just in time to see Eames do the same, stripes of white painting the stark black of his dress pants.

Eames is laughing as he catches his breath and Arthur can’t help but do the same. A sudden rush of warmth rises in his chest and he hurries to squash it back down. No, he can’t really be falling for this guy. This is just a bit of fun. It won’t be long before one of them grows bored with the game and they move on with their lives. The laughter catches in Arthur’s chest. He tears his eyes away from Eames—that mental picture is going to be wank material for years to come—and goes to clean up.

The sound of the phone ringing yanks Arthur away from his work e-mail on Saturday. His fingers grip on nothing for a few tries before he finally finds his phone on the coffee table.

“Arthur,” Cobb sounds breathless on the other end of the phone. “Mal just landed a huge contract and we’re going out tonight to celebrate. You’re coming.”

Arthur stares at his empty inbox, where he’s waiting from a reply to his last email. He’s been telling himself it’s an emergency, even though the matter could easily wait until he’s back at work on Monday. “I don’t know, Cobb.”

“Arthur.” Cobb’s voice deepens into a more serious tone. “Are you sick?”

“Um. No?”

“Then you’re coming with us.” Toy sirens blare in the background. “You’ll meet us at Labyrinth at six. Okay?”

“Okay.” Arthur smiles in spite of himself. “I’ll be there.”

He keeps his promise, climbing out of a cab outside the bar at six sharp. Mal pulls him into a hug as soon as he steps onto the sidewalk. “It’s been too long, Arthur,” she purrs.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” Arthur squeezes her elbows briefly before she lets go. “Tell me more about this project.”

“It’s a skyscraper,” Mal says, as they make their way inside. Ariadne waves at them from a table in the corner. “Insurance company decided it was time for a change. It’s going to be on—”

Arthur’s eyes fall on a man sitting at the bar and his brain shuts down. It’s Eames. He looks different away from a window, more rumpled and more average. He’s wearing a light brown suit over a dark green button-up. A glass of scotch sits in front of him, but he’s crouching over it more than he’s drinking it.

“Arthur?” Mal puts her hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Arthur shakes his head and takes a seat, facing away from the man he’s been jacking off to for the past week. “Sorry. I don’t know where I went just now.”

He forces himself to focus on Mal and his friends for a couple rounds, until they’re all appropriately buzzed and he’s able to slip away. When he looks back to Eames’s seat at the bar, the man is gone. The glass of scotch is still there, half empty now, a stack of bills tucked underneath.

He can’t be far. Arthur pushes through the crowd, trying not to think too much about what he’s doing, what he would even say if he found him. He doesn’t have to worry about that, though. By the time he manages to make it outside, Eames is nowhere to be found.

Arthur tries to pretend he isn’t disappointed as he goes back inside.

Normally, Arthur would spend his Sunday morning curled up in his favorite chair, watching the sun rise over the city. Today, his chair is abandoned, the sun is rising unnoticed behind him.

Eames isn’t wearing much, just a gray muscle shirt and darker sweatpants. The shirt is the first to go but he leaves the sweatpants on as he steps up in front of the window.

Arthur lets out a whine at the fact that they don’t disguise anything at all. The step stool is still there, so he steps up onto it and pulls his shirt off.

Eames has a bottle on the windowsill and he snatches it up. Arthur squints across but it isn’t until Eames turns it over and squeezes something out onto his fingers that he realizes what it is.

Lube.

Arthur’s knees shake when, instead of spreading it over his cock, Eames drops his pants down around his ankles and turns around. Arthur could stare at that ass for days. He has to lean against the wall as he watches Eames slide a finger between his cheeks. He doesn’t try to push in, not yet, just slips his finger up and down.

Arthur wants to do that. Wants to push Eames up against a wall and tease him until he begs. Only then would he push in, opening him up with his fingers. The thought alone makes him feel like he’s about to come and he hasn’t even touched himself yet.

Eames bends over a bit, balancing himself with one hand on something that Arthur can’t see, and pushes the first finger inside. His back arches at the intrusion and Arthur wishes more than anything that he could see Eames’s face. He knows exactly what Eames looks like when he’s coming but this…this is something else.

Arthur’s hand moves to his cock, stroking slowly. It’s enough to soothe the desire for contact but not to bring him over the edge.

Eames tries to twist himself around, to get a glimpse of Arthur, but he can’t get the angle quite right. He turns around and shoves a second finger along the first. He must hit his prostate because he lets out a shout and slams his free hand against whatever he’s leaning on.

“Oh _God,_ Eames,” Arthur shouts, clenching down on the base of his cock to keep from coming.

Eames yanks his fingers out, his movements desperate now, and reaches for the lube. When he pushes his fingers back inside again, there are three this time. Arthur swears, unable to take it anymore. He strokes himself twice and comes with a hissed, _“Fuck, fuck, Eames.”_

Across the way, Eames shoves his fingers inside himself, holds them still for a moment, and comes. It isn’t until Arthur glances over to where Eames’s free hand is still out of sight that he realizes he did it without being touched.

Arthur’s blood boils with the desire to be over there, to help Eames clean up, to pull him over to the couch so they can cuddle up to each other. He steps away from the window, going to find a towel to clean up himself.

This, what they have, it’s not enough for him anymore. He’s had the best orgasms of his life with a man that he can’t even touch. It’s ridiculous. It’s downright unhealthy.

Arthur rides the adrenaline spike through the clean-up and gets dressed into a black polo and jeans. Eames’s apartment complex is directly next to his, but the front door is one block over. Arthur almost changes his mind about twelve times before he even makes it to the door.

The receptionist is a girl in her early twenties, probably a college kid looking for some extra money. She smiles pleasantly at him as he walks up to the desk. “I’m here to see Eames,” Arthur says, hoping she doesn’t ask for more. He isn’t even sure if that’s a first name, a last name, or just a nickname.

“Is he expecting you?” she asks.

Arthur considers saying yes. It _might_ not be a lie. “No, I just thought I’d drop by.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s against our policy to give out personal information without express permission from our residents.”

“Of course.” It’s probably for the best. Perhaps it’s all just a game to Eames and he’d be disgusted if Arthur showed up on his doorstep. “I understand.”

He turns around and walks back out. He doesn’t want to go back home, doesn’t want to think about Eames, so he goes to the office instead. If anyone’s confused by him showing up on a Sunday, they don’t ask any questions.

Eames is waiting when Arthur gets home. He waves across the alley when Arthur stops outside his own window, but doesn’t make a move to take off his clothes. Instead, he holds up a piece of paper.

Numbers. Arthur forgets how to breathe for a moment. It’s a phone number.

Arthur runs to grab his phone out of his briefcase before he can think twice about this. He dials and the ring seems to stretch out into eternity.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is laughing and, for a second, Arthur’s stomach rolls as he considers that this might be a prank of some kind.

He tries not to let his voice shake as he says, “Eames?”

“Arthur.” The tone is warm now, not laughing at all. His voice is warm and deep in a way that sends shivers all the way down to Arthur’s toes. “I don’t want to sound too forward—” Arthur lets out a laugh at the idea that a man who undresses in full view of anyone looking out the window and fucks himself to strangers watching could be _too forward_ “—but would you mind terribly if I came over?”

Arthur glances around his apartment. He means to check to make sure it’s clean but instead he pictures Eames everywhere—bent over the sofa, sitting on the counter, pressed against the wall, sprawled across the bed. “Oh God. _Yes.”_

“Yes, you would mind?” Eames is laughing again.

“Damn it, Eames.” Arthur lets out a snort of frustration. “I live in 1246. It’s on the—”

“I know what side of the building it’s on. I can see your window.”

“Right,” Arthur says and, before there’s time for anything else, Eames is hanging up. Arthur stares at the phone in his hand, static clogging his brain. Eames is going to be here. _Here._ Where Arthur can touch him and kiss him and fuck him in all the ways he’s been thinking about since he first saw him.

Arthur’s head shoots up. He needs to clean. He shoves the towel from this morning into the laundry basket and stows the whole thing away in the closet. Rinses off the dirty dishes and sets them in the dishwasher for later. Shoves the step stool back underneath the sink where it belongs. Takes the trash out to the garbage chute. He’s wondering if there’s enough time to run the vacuum when there’s a knock on the door.

Arthur peeks out and, sure enough. Eames. He yanks the door open.

Despite thinking out exactly what he intends to say in this moment, Arthur’s mind goes blank. Eames is wearing a white button-up tucked into his jeans and he looks amazing. Arthur reaches out, resting his fingers against Eames’s chest like he needs to make sure this isn’t a dream. Maybe he should get Eames to pinch him, just to be safe.

“Come in,” Arthur says, because even when he’s speechless he has manners.

Eames steps inside, glances quickly around his apartment, and then fixes his gaze on Arthur. He hasn’t felt so thoroughly eye-fucked in a…probably ever.

“Would you like a drink?” Arthur asks, moving towards the kitchen.

“Arthur.” The sound of his name on Eames’s lips stops him in his tracks. “Later, I’m going to ask you out to dinner. But right now, what I really want is to fuck you.”

“Oh.” Arthur licks his lips and steps closer. “Yes.”

Eames presses his palms to Arthur’s chest and pushes him back against the door. The air rushes out of Arthur’s chest and then he’s being kissed.

Eames’s tongue pushes into his mouth, rough and demanding. He kisses like this is their only chance and it’ll never be enough, like he’s trying to make up for all the times they got off together and couldn’t do it like this. Arthur groans as Eames pushes his knee between his legs, giving him something to grind down on. They rub against each other until Arthur has to push him off.

“If you keep doing that,” he pants, “I’m going to come.”

Eames pulls his hips away and moves his mouth to Arthur’s neck, biting and sucking in turns.

Arthur pushes him back again. “Bedroom. Now.”

“You know sometimes I like to be wined and dined,” Eames teases but he follows Arthur around the corner and down the hall to his bedroom. It’s not much but the bed is big enough for both of them.

“Really?” Arthur reaches back to pull his shirt off. “Because I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

Eames stills him with a hand. “Darling, I’ve had more than enough of watching you take your clothes off. Let me.”

Arthur drops his arms and lets Eames tug his shirt off. And because turnabout is fair play, he pulls Eames’s shirt out from his pants and undoes the buttons as quickly as he can. When he’s finally able to push it off Eames’s shoulders, the man steps forward and presses their bare chests together as he comes in for a kiss.

Arthur doesn’t know how he made it through the past couple of weeks without this. They could have had this all along, instead of getting themselves off with two panes of glass and an alley between them.

Eames’s lips are strangely gentle this time, tongue teasing into Arthur’s mouth. His hands slide down his chest, fingertips brushing over his nipples before settling on his waist.

Arthur lifts up his hands and hesitates as he tries to decide where to put them. There are so many things he wants and he wishes he could do them all at once.

“You can touch me,” Eames murmurs into his lips. “I don’t bite. Well…”

Arthur nips down on his bottom lip in response and settles his hands against Eames’s shoulders. His skin is soft, stretched over powerful muscles that flex with every movement. The ink feels sleek and Arthur pulls out of the kiss to watch his hands run over it. The black swirls look even more intricate in person, wrapping around the shoulder joints and tapering down his upper arm. “What’s your other tattoo?” Arthur asks.

“See for yourself.” Eames half-turns around, putting his right shoulder on full display. In front is a ribbon weaving back and forth across his shoulder, bearing the words _“We can’t choose the cards we’re dealt. Just how we play the hand.”_ Behind it is scattered a roulette wheel, poker chips with various numbers, and two cards—the Ace of Spades and the King of Hearts.

“Why this?” Arthur asks, fingers delicately tracing the lines of the ribbon.

“Because I know it to be true.” Eames turns back around and pulls him close by the belt-loops. “There’ll be plenty of time to admire my art later.”

Arthur shivers as he’s drawn back into another kiss, this one messy and uncoordinated as Eames unzips his jeans and pushes them down. His briefs quickly follow suit. Eames licks over the roof of his mouth and Arthur moans, only for the kiss to end.

“Get on the bed,” Eames growls in his ear. “You have lube?”

Arthur hurries to obey, bracing himself up on his elbows as he leans back on top of the covers. “It’s in the side table.”

Eames pulls open the drawer and hums his satisfaction. Arthur’s about to tell him where to find condoms when he pulls one out of his pocket. All right then. Eames drops both the packet and the lube onto the bed before turning his attention to his own jeans. He drops them to the floor more slowly than is strictly necessary before pushing down his boxers with the same torture.

“Come on,” Arthur groans, his cock dripping pre-cum onto his stomach. “I think we’ve been waiting long enough.”

“Maybe I just want you to watch me.” His boxers fall to the floor in a pile and he steps out, moving away from the bed.

Arthur’s head thumps back against his pillow. “Eames, I swear—”

“You’re right.” The end of the bed sinks down as Eames climbs up and settles down between Arthur’s legs. Eames captures his lips and for a minute they just kiss, enjoying the feel of skin on skin as they rub against each other.

Eames breaks out of the kiss and Arthur hears the click of the cap on the lube. He watches as Eames sits up and squeezes it onto his fingers, trying not to tense up with anticipation. It may have been eight months since he’s last had sex but it’s been even longer since he’s done this.

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to,” Eames says, settling back on his heels. “You can fuck me if you want. Or we don’t have to at all.”

“No, it’s okay.” Arthur smiles, sitting up so he can reach Eames’s wrist and guide it down between his legs. “I want to.”

Eames teases him with the tip of his finger and Arthur gasps at the sensation. He pushes up into the touch, trying to bring it inside him, but Eames doesn’t give in. He just keeps circling his fingers until Arthur falls back onto the bed, resigned to it. Only then does Eames push in the first finger, all the way up the knuckle.

Arthur groans, forcing his body to relax against the intrusion. Eames’s fingers are longer than his own and he knows exactly how to crook them to rub against his prostate.

“Fuck,” Eames hisses, watching Arthur buck his hips and bite into his bottom lip to keep from whining. “You are so beautiful, darling.”

“More, Eames. Please.” Arthur’s not above begging, not here if it gets him what he needs. “Come on, I can take it.”

Eames slides a second finger beside the first, scissoring them immediately. Arthur lets out a string of curses, suddenly glad that Eames is ignoring his cock. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t last three seconds right now.

It seems to go on forever, Eames pumping his fingers inside of him, sometimes fast and dirty, sometimes slow and deliberate. The slow times are when he curls them, hitting Arthur’s prostate every time.

Arthur doesn’t think that he can handle much more when Eames slides in a third finger. He _knows_ he can’t when Eames leans down and takes his cock into his mouth.

“Fuck, Eames, fuck, oh God, I’m gonna—” He doesn’t even manage to get all the words out before his back is arching off the bed and he’s coming down Eames’s throat. He swallows it all down, fingers not even slowing as he pumps them inside Arthur.

“Stop. Stop,” Arthur shouts between panting breaths. Eames withdraws his fingers and leans up to kiss gently at Arthur’s neck as he comes down. “I’m okay. Just give me a minute.”

“It’s fine.” Eames shushes him gently, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face. Then he pushes himself over Arthur and off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asks, trying not to sound scared that he just fucked everything up.

“Don’t worry.” Eames leans over him, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll be right back.” He disappears out of the bedroom. Arthur can hear cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen while he waits, then running water. A moment later, Eames returns carrying a glass of water. He hands it to Arthur before stretching himself out on the bed.

Arthur pushes up on his elbows and drains the glass. Eames takes it from him and sets it on the side table.

“Do you still want to?” Eames asks, his eyes searching Arthur’s expression for any hint of hesitation.

Arthur grins and rolls himself over so that he can guide Eames onto his back and straddle his waist. He takes Eames’s cock into his hand, marveling at the weight of it. No amount of imagining could possibly compare to having the real thing. Arthur grabs the condom from where it’s been pushed to the side and rolls it on.

They both moan as Arthur slides down, the head pushing in with ease. Eames keeps himself still, hands just resting on Arthur’s hips as he eases himself down. Only when Arthur’s fully seated does Eames allow his hips to buck up, driving himself just that tiniest bit deeper.

Arthur takes a minute to adjust and then pushes up, rolling his hips down until he sets a steady rhythm.

“Oh God. Arthur, you feel incredible. Harder. Please—” Eames’s words drop off into a litany of curses as Arthur squeezes around him.

This is amazing. He feels full to the brim with Eames inside of him, surrounded by Eames’s warmth, the scent of his aftershave and sweat and sex. Why hasn’t he been doing this for years? The thought pops into his head that this may be the first time but maybe he _can_ have this for years.

Arthur cracks. He braces his knees against the bed and pistons up and down. _“Arthur,”_ Eames shouts underneath him. He considers that he’s never really checked the soundproof qualities of his apartment until now.

Arthur braces his hands against Eames’s chest, feeling his heart race against his palm. “Come for me, Eames.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eames hisses, his entire body tensing up. Arthur stills, closing his eyes as he focuses on the feeling of Eames’s cock spilling inside of him.

“Arthur, dear,” Eames says, nudging him in the hip with his hand. “You have to move.”

Arthur glances down to where they’re still connected and pulls off, groaning at the feeling. He falls over onto his side and watches Eames head to the bathroom to clean-up. Arthur’s eyes are closed and he feels like he’s about to drift off when he feels the bed sink down again.

He feels like he’s floating on a post-sex cloud and he never wants to come down. He remembers that Eames wants to take him out to dinner, but he also knows that they’ve never had a real conversation. The sex is clearly fantastic but Arthur doesn’t even know anything about this man.

“Why were you all dressed up that one day?” Arthur asks as Eames stretches out beside him, twining their legs together.

“A wedding. Not mine, obviously.” Eames laughs, reaching over to rest a hand on Arthur’s side.

“I should hope not.” Arthur pauses, thinking about a different incident. “I saw you. At the bar.”

“The wedding wasn’t at a bar.”

Arthur snorts, pushing his forehead into his pillow. “The day after. At the Labyrinth. I was celebrating a friend’s thing and I saw you sitting there. By the time I got up the guts to say hello, you were gone.”

“Oh. That.” Eames frowns slightly. “I had a rough day at work.”

Arthur echoes his frown. “Where do you work?”

“Anywhere my services are needed. I authenticate artwork. Check for forgeries, you know.”

“How did you get into that?”

Eames squirms slightly, hiding his face behind his arm. “I used to be a forger. A great one.”

“Oh.”

“Not anymore.” Eames pulls his arm away and meets Arthur’s gaze, his eyes deadly serious. “My days of flouting the law are behind me. Okay, mostly. I still forge but only for myself.”

Arthur shakes his head but he’s grinning. He tries to suppress the yawn that builds in the back of his throat but he can’t.

“We can talk all about our lives at dinner,” Eames says before leaning over for a quick kiss. “I’m thinking tomorrow, if you’re not busy. I know the perfect Italian place just down the street.”

“Okay.” Arthur yawns again and he doesn’t even try to hide it this time. “Tomorrow is perfect.”

“Good. Go to sleep, darling.”

When Arthur wakes in the morning, Eames is gone. He rolls out of bed and checks the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room but he’s really gone. It’s only when he goes back through his bedroom that he spots the note.

_My apologies for leaving without saying goodbye. The museum wants to see me first thing. If you can manage to look out your window—don’t be daft, you know which one I’m referring to—at six forty-five, you may be able to see me._

Arthur glances at the clock. Four minutes. He dashes into the bathroom and rushes through his morning routine. He tries not to worry too much about the fact that his hair is a mess. Eames made it that way, after all.

At six forty-five sharp, he finds himself standing in front of his window, still naked because there wasn’t time to bother with deciding on clothes. Eames is on the other side of the alley, dressed in a black button-up. Arthur’s phone rings and he doesn’t have to look at it to know who it is.

“You should know that I’m a fan of morning cuddling,” Arthur says.

“I shall keep that in mind.” Eames stares at him from across the alley. “Next time, I’ll make sure not to answer my phone when work calls.”

“And this time?”

“Well…” Eames takes him in and Arthur can feel his skin heating up under his gaze. “I can see you’re already dressed for the occasion. Do you have time for a show?”

Air hisses out from between Arthur’s teeth. “Always.”

Eames reaches up, slipping the buttons undone one at a time. Arthur shivers as he thinks about what those long fingers feel like on him, inside him. Now that he’s had it once, he can’t wait to have Eames again. Right now, though, he presses his palms against the cold of the glass and just enjoys the show.

**Author's Note:**

> I also can't take credit for Eames's tattoo. The inspiration is [here](http://www.tattoo.com/traditional-tit-4-tat-tattoo-studio-308984).


End file.
